


Deserving

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2018-05-09 21:03:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5555267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wants it rougher; Porthos never gives him that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deserving

**Author's Note:**

> Originally a prompt on tumblr now being posted here!

Aramis’ mouth curves into a pleased shape, pants of breath and teeth dragging across his bottom lip. It’s like this: heavy hands on his hips, nails digging in, dragging, leaving trails against his skin. Or like this: teeth at the line of his jaw and his neck, bruises in the shape of bites, the whispered promise of blood, skin breaking against a blooming smile at the bob of his adam’s apple. Or like this: burns along his wrists in the shape of ropes’ veins, arms aching tied up to rungs in the headboard. 

Instead, though, it is this: hands gentle at his shoulders, never around his throat, lips kind against the curve of his mouth, never biting down hard at his hipbone. The movements, always slow and tender, gentle, nails dragging only barely, teeth grazing only barely, pinned down only ever barely.

Aramis knows why. He cannot blame him for it, cannot blame that the man he loves is gentle and kind and sweet in the face of a world that would see him the brute, the beast, the dangerous monster. Instead, he rocks against Aramis with painful slowness, cups him upwards to find the perfect angle, presses into him and always, always pauses when Aramis gasps out – looking up to his face, to see, to find, to search for any sign of distress, any sign of pain. There is never pain in Porthos’ arms – not unless Aramis begs, begs, begs again and again. And even then, the hands that press to his throat are only ever kind, only ever heavy with the burden of that love, of that trust. 

And he does. He trusts him. He trusts him every time the breath stutters from his lungs, his lips chap around the gasp of air, begging for lips, begging for love, begging for anything that he can be given by Porthos’ large, callused hands. 

He is always gentle. He is always kind – and that, somehow, hurts so much worse than any kind of pain Porthos could give him. Held, protected, pressed down as if he is precious, as if he is worth keeping, as if he is worth protecting. He can never blame Porthos for it, but it hurts more than fingers pressing deep into his throat ever could.


End file.
